


Future Uncertain

by Celandine



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, Gen, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 04:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5953477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celandine/pseuds/Celandine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots of three moments in Effie's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future Uncertain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Your Cruise Director (cruisedirector)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruisedirector/gifts).



> This is more of a character exploration than anything, as there is not really much plot to be seen.

Being a chaperone for the Hunger Games was not something that a person could train for. Not specifically. Everyone knew what the chaperones did—more or less—just from seeing them at the reapings on television, and then escorting their tributes in the days leading up to the Games. And of course the chaperone whose tribute won had the privilege of accompanying him or her on the Victory Tour that year.

No formal training, then, and new chaperones learned from talking to the more experienced one, as well as through trial and error of their own. There was no formal application process, either; it was all in who you knew, who put in a word for you in the proper places.

Effie had done what she could to secure the appointment. She went to the right parties, talked to the right people, dropped the right hints in the right ears, but even so she was more than a little surprised when she was summoned to the president's palace.

Not to meet President Snow, of course, but to be interviewed by several of the long-time chaperones and then the Head Gamemaker. Effie managed to repress her nervousness and did her best to exude the sort of bubbly personality that characterized the most successful chaperones. She was delighted to hear, a week later, that she had been appointed, but at the same time disappointed to learn which district she would oversee.

"Twelve!" she wailed to her friend Tigris, who had been a stylist for District 2 for several years. "I'll never have a winner."

Tigris shook her head sympathetically. "It's not impossible, but history is against it, you're right. They've only had two winners, ever, and now it's just that drunkard Haymitch who's still alive. You'll have to work with him, since he's the only mentor, but if he gives you any trouble, talk to me." She smiled, baring the teeth she'd had filed to feline points. "I'll see that he behaves."

"I'm sure I can handle Haymitch." Effie wrinkled her nose. "What do you think are the chances that I can move up from 12, though?"

"Put in a few years," said Tigris. "If you do a good job, you'll be in line to take over for a better district when one of the other chaperones retires. They like to have the experienced ones working with the tributes most likely to win. It's the same with the stylists, you know. Everyone starts out with one of the losing districts, like 7 or 9 or 12, but make a success of one of those and you'll move up. I don't mean having a winning tribute, necessarily, though that doesn't hurt. I mean make good television of the reaping. Think of how you can make yourself noticed."

"Like you?" said Effie, a bit doubtfully. Tigris had once been called Prisca, before she had begun the surgical transformations that had made her increasingly feline in appearance, and changed her name to match.

"Not like _me_." Tigris laughed. "You'd be a pale imitation if you tried. You'll need to think of something of your own, something to set you apart. It could be appearance, or a catch phrase you use, or, I don't know, something distinctive in your voice. Remember Verina?"

"Oh yes. The chaperone for District 4, years back. She practically sang every word she said. No one could forget her," Effie said. "But I don't sing."

"No, and you'll want something unique anyhow. Think about what it could be, that's my advice." Tigris gave Effie a quick hug. "Welcome to the Hunger Games. They wouldn't be the same without us, the stylists and chaperones and prep teams. Or without the mentors, for that matter, though since they're from the districts they're not really the same. They're only in the Capitol when the Games are on, poor things."

Effie nodded. She'd never thought about that much before, but Tigris was right. The mentors—the former victors—might be celebrated for their achievements in the Games, but they would never truly be part of Capitol society. Poor things indeed.

* * *

She had seen District 12's sole surviving victor, and thus sole mentor, for years, but had never met Haymitch Abernathy until she became the district mentor, and arrived in 12 to orchestrate her first reaping, for the 64th Hunger Games.

He looked her up and down and wrinkled his nose. "Are you the best that the Capitol could do, sweetheart?"

Effie bristled. "I am perfectly prepared to do the job. I've watched the reapings for years, and the procedures have been thoroughly explained to me. Since no one ever volunteers in 12, it's quite straightforward. I draw out first the girl's name and announce it, and then the boy's. The Peacekeepers escort them to the platform and see that they don't have any chance to evade their responsibilities before they get onto the train."

Haymitch's face hardened. He picked up one of the bottles from the tray that had been provided for their refreshment, and to Effie's disgust, drank directly from it instead of using a glass.

"None of them wants to 'evade their responsibilities,' as you put it. They want to live, that's all, and they know they're going to die."

"It's not certain," Effie argued. "You won _your_ Games."

"Won," repeated Haymitch. "No. No one, ever, wins the Games. No one. You'll learn that eventually." He took another drink, then another. "Time to go out on that stage, sweetheart, for you to choose the sacrifices."

They were not _sacrifices_ , Effie fumed, but silently. They were _tributes_. Living acknowledgements of the power of the Capitol, living atonements for the rebellion more than six decades before. They had a chance to win.

She followed the Peacekeeper who led her to the platform. The two reaping balls were already in place, each on its own pedestal: the girls' to her left, the boys' to her right. The pool of potential tributes was before her, with a clear space left down the center for those whose names were chosen to walk to the platform and accept their fate. On either side of those waiting to be reaped were the families, and indeed much of the population of District 12. Everyone who was physically able to attend was required to do so.

First there was the video clip, recapitulating the history of the rebellion, the destruction of District 13, the decision to institute the Hunger Games instead of punishing every traitor. Effie held her head proudly high as she listened to President Snow's voice justifying the Capitol's choice to give mercy.

Then it was time for the reaping to begin. Each district went in turn. As usual the tributes from Districts 1 and 2 were volunteers. Now _those_ were districts that understood their responsibilities. By the time that it was District 12's turn, Effie was impatient for it to be over, to be heading back to the Capitol with her tributes, to talk to them and assess whether they had any chance of victory during this year's Games.

"Ladies first!" She smiled brightly, confident in the latest Capitol fashion, with apple-green hair and a jacket in a matching plaid. The girls in front of her were so _drab_ , even in what were clearly their best dresses. She put her hand into the bowl and pulled out the first slip of paper she touched. "Salla Wright. Come on up, dear."

There was a pause before a girl stepped out into the aisle left free for her. She had dark hair in two braids, but her head was bowed so that Effie couldn't see her face. She kept it ducked down even as she climbed the few steps to join Effie on the platform.

"And now for the boys." Effie smiled again, knowing that she was being broadcast, that all of her family and friends back in the Capitol, that all of Panem was watching her. "Alster Trumbull."

Alster was a tall, well-built lad, with the muscle of one who had already started working in the mines. He kept his head up, but his expression was blank, shocked.

"District 12, your tributes. Salla and Alster, may the odds be ever in your favor!"

The crowd below her rustled. People on the edges began to slip away, leaving behind only a few individuals, the family and close friends of the tributes. They would have a chance to say their goodbyes in private.

Effie felt more than a little exasperated by the time she had boarded the train, herding the two tributes before her. She had been forced to use the primitive bathroom available in the District 12 Justice Building—no heated air! no scented lotions!—and Salla had cried nonstop. Even Effie's pointing out of the luxuries she and Alster would enjoy had had no effect on the girl.

"What did you expect?" Haymitch sprawled on a damask sofa with a dangerously over-full glass of whisky in one hand. "She's not stupid. She knows she's never coming home."

"Well, she certainly won't if she doesn't even _try_ ," Effie snapped. "It's our job to get them both to do the best they can in the Games."

"You really think they have a chance?"

Effie looked at him. Something about his expression made her be honest. "Not much. Maybe Alster, if he gets lucky."

"So you see. If you were in Salla's shoes," Haymitch glanced down at Effie's feet and raised his eyebrows, "wouldn't you cry too? How can a week or two in the Capitol with all its extravagance make up for being hunted down afterward like an animal and killed? Maybe after you've forced yourself to kill someone else already?"

There was nothing wrong with Effie's shoes. The four-inch heels were striped in lavender and white to match the rest of her outfit. Nevertheless she tucked her feet under her chair.

"I suppose," she said after a moment. "What I said is true, though. If they don't try, they can't possibly win. And you and I have to help them. That's what we're here for. I guide them through all of the public appearances, you give them advice on strategy for when they're in the arena, and both of us work on finding sponsors."

Haymitch gave a short laugh. "Yeah, sponsors are always falling over themselves to support tributes from District 12. Maybe if Alster does well in the ratings, but I wouldn't count on it."

"You have to encourage them!" Effie glared at him. "The tributes to show themselves well in practice, and the sponsors once the Games have started. Chat them up. Make them feel like some of the credit will accrue to them if the tribute they helps wins. That's how to do it."

Despite her rousing words, though, she knew it was hopeless. Haymitch would never be able, even if he were willing, to charm potential sponsors into financing any of the extra resources that could make all the difference between death and victory for a tribute. She would have to do the best she could by herself.

For the first time Effie wondered if being a chaperone was really what she wanted after all. Still, there was nothing else more likely to bring her into the upper reaches of Capitol society. Twelve districts, twelve chaperones sought after for any tidbits of information they might drop about their tributes that could be used to advantage by those who knew.

"Welcome to the Hunger Games," said Haymitch, interrupting her thoughts.

For a second Effie thought he was talking to her before realizing that the two tributes had entered the train car. She gave them a bright smile. "I hope your rooms are comfortable? If you need anything, I can make sure you have it. There are refreshments over there." She waved a hand at the sideboard. "Help yourselves."

* * *

Looking back at her first Hunger Games as a chaperone later, Effie always sighed. She had been so naïve, thinking that she might have a victor right away and be rewarded with assignment to a different district. It had been nearly a decade now, and none of the tributes from 12 had done better than Gram in her third year and Ailis in her fifth, both of whom made it into the top six but no further, and Ailis had only managed to do that well through sheer luck. She had twisted her ankle badly on the first day and hidden successfully for quite a while in a cave that had a small spring and a cache of nuts left by some rodent or another. Once the Careers had realized she was still alive, however, they made it a point to find and eliminate her.

Socially, however, she had little to complain of. As long as she managed a cheerful demeanor, albeit with a slightly long-suffering attitude toward her district, there were plenty of those who sympathized with her. As Tigris had recommended, Effie found her catchphrase for the reaping—a bright "Ladies first!" with a sparkling smile. Poor Tigris. She had gone a little too far in her quest to be as feline as a human might be, and lost her position as a stylist. These days she owned a small shop catering more to the social aspirants than to the true elite. Effie visited her occasionally, but they really had little in common any more.

Haymitch was another matter. Years of working together had driven home to her that he would never change—he would always drink far more than anyone should, and waver between cynicism, bitterness, and black gloom. Effie couldn't think of a single time Haymitch had remotely approached true good humor. An acid wit was the closest thing she had seen in him.

Her only hope was that District 12 might someday have another victor. Then there would be someone else besides Haymitch to serve as the district's mentor. That would be wonderful, to have a mentor to work with who might actually _mentor_ their tributes, give them useful hints, find them sponsors. 

Every year was another disappointment on that count. Every year Haymitch drank a little more. Every year Effie pasted on her brightest smile for the cameras and chirped encouragingly at the tributes. Every year…

"Every year they _die_ , sweetheart." Haymitch was unsteadier than usual, nearly falling over as he headed toward the liquor cabinet. "I can't help them. You can't help them. They can't help themselves, either. All they can do is die."

He swung around and glared at her as best he could with eyes that were only half-able to focus. "The worst part? They're probably better off dead than as victors."

She didn't understand. "But the victors—they're the _victors_. They live, go home, get a lovely house and an income, get to travel to the Capitol and enjoy some real society every year. How can you say they'd be better off dead?"

"Forget it." Haymitch drank off the rest of the liquor in his glass. "Enjoy your evening with this year's future corpses."

He staggered off, she hoped to his own bed. More than once he had passed out elsewhere on the train and had had to be carried to his bed by a pair of the servants.

What could he possibly have meant by saying the tributes would be better dead than victors? Of course _he_ was hardly an example of a victor doing well by himself. She had always supposed he had begun indulging in liquor for enjoyment and let it get too strong a hold on him. But perhaps there was more to it than that.

Effie thought back to when she was quite a young girl, to the time of the second Quarter Quell, the year Haymitch had been the victor. No one had expected him to win. Effie herself had been rooting for one of the boys from District 2, a dark-haired charmer who moved as sinuously as a viper and was just as deadly. She had, however, been impressed by Haymitch's ingenuity in using the force field to defeat his final opponent. How had someone so clever, so successful, sunk to this?

It was impossible to ask him. He would only jeer and offer some sarcastic and unbelievable answer, and after pickling his brains for so long, he probably couldn't remember the truth anyway.

She smoothed down the melon-colored flounces of her skirt and waited for this year's two tributes to find their way to the lounge car. She would play down Haymitch's absence tonight, but he had better be present in the morning or the odds would decidedly _not_ be in his favor. They were a team, whether or not either of them liked it, and the least he could do was reassure his district's tributes of the possibility of victory through his own presence.

Victory for District 12 might seem less and less attainable, making it increasingly unlikely that Effie would ever be transferred to another one, but there was no alternative but to keep trying. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The 72nd Hunger Games would begin in a few days, and until then, she had a job to do.


End file.
